Seasons of War

Emperor working like a commoner, they didn’t say anything. Two couriers passed them riding east, but neither bore a message from Idaan. Three came up behind them bearing letters for the Emperor from what seemed like half the court at Saraykeht and Utani.
    Nightfall caught them at the top of the last high, broad pass that opened onto the western plains. On the horizon, Pathai glittered like a congress of stars. The armsmen assembled the sleeping tents, unrolling layers of leather and fur to drape over the canvas. Otah squatted by the kiln, reading through letter after letter. The silk threads that had once sewn the paper closed rested in knots and tangles by his feet. The snow that lay about them was fresh though the sky had cleared, and the cold combined with the day’s work to tire him. The joints of his hands ached, and his eyes were tired and difficult to focus. He dreaded the close, airless sleeping tents and the ache-interrupted night that lay before him almost as much as he was annoyed by the petty politics of court.
    Letter after letter praised or castigated him for his decision to leave. The Khaiate Council, as it had been deemed in his absence, was either a terrible mistake or an act of surpassing wisdom, and whichever it was, the author of the letter would be better placed on it than someone Otah had named.
    Balasar Gice, the only Galt on the council, was pressing for relief ships to sail for Galt with as much food as could be spared and men to help guide and oversee the blinded. The rest of the council was divided, and a third of them had written to Otah for his opinion. Otah put those letters directly into the fire. If he’d meant to answer every difficult question from the road, he wouldn’t have created the council.
    There was no word from Sinja or Chaburi-Tan. Balasar, writing with a secretary to help him, feared the worst. This letter, Otah tucked into his sleeve. There was no reason to keep it. He could do nothing to affect its news. But he couldn’t bring himself to destroy something to do with Sinja when his old friend’s fate already seemed so tentative.
    Uncertain footsteps sounded behind him. Ana Dasin was walking the wide boards toward the kiln. Her hair was loose and her robe blue shot with gold. Her grayed eyes seemed to search the darkness.
    ‘Ana-cha,’ he said, both a greeting and a warning that he was there. The girl started a little, but then smiled uncertainly.
    ‘Most High,’ she said, nodding very nearly toward him. ‘Is . . . I was wondering if Danat-cha was with you?’
    ‘He’s gone to fetch water with the others,’ Otah said, nodding uselessly toward a path that led to a shepherd’s well. ‘He will be back in half a hand, I’d think.’
    ‘Oh,’ Ana said, her face falling.
    ‘Is there something I can do?’
    Watching the struggle in the girl’s expression seemed almost more an intrusion than his previous eavesdropping. After a moment, she drew something from her sleeve. Cream-colored paper sewn with yellow thread. She held it out.
    ‘The courier said it was from my father,’ she said. ‘I can’t read it.’
    Otah cleared his throat against an unexpected tightness. He felt unworthy of the girl’s trust, and something like gratitude brought tears to his eyes.
    ‘I would be honored, Ana-cha, to read it for you,’ he said.
    Otah rose, took the letter, and drew Ana to a stool near enough the kiln to warm her, but not so close as to put her in danger of touching the still-scorching metal. He ripped out the thread, unfolded the single page, and leaned in toward the light.
    It was written in Galtic though the script betrayed more familiarity with the alphabet of the Khaiem. He knew before he began to read that there would be nothing in it too personal to say to a secretary, and the fact relieved him. He skimmed the words once, then again more slowly.
    ‘Most High?’ Ana said.
    ‘It is addressed to you,’ Otah said. ‘It says this: I understand that you’ve seen fit to run off without telling me or your mother. You should know better than that . Then there are a few more lines that restate all that.’
    Ana sat straight, her hands on her knees, her face expressionless. Otah coughed, cleared his throat, and went on.
    ‘There is a second section,’ he said. ‘He says . . . well.’
    Otah smoothed the page with his fingers, tracing the words as he spoke.
    ‘Still, I was your age once too. If good judgment were part of being young, there would be no